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I dab once. The towel stains red. His skin glistens clear. No one says a word.
There’s a part of me that recognizes that Bee should probably be the one doing this. But the larger, louder part of me feels this possessive need to be here by his side. To take care of him the way he took care of me tonight.
So I wipe, and I wipe, and I wipe, until there’s no more blood and nothing left for me to do. Only then do I set the towel down on the countertop, just as delicately as I’ve done everything else.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
He twists around to face me. I flinch as he puts a finger under my chin and forces my eyes to his. “Are you okay?”
My lips wobble. “I… don’t know.”
His jaw pulses, but his finger remains tender and soft right where it is under the cliff of my chin. “I’m increasing security around the penthouse. Both inside and out. No one is going to get to you. Or Bee.”
“Is she okay?”
“You saw her. She can take care of herself.”
That almost makes me smile, just as much as the pride in his voice makes me want to cry. Not because I’m jealous, but because I’m never going to be that girl.
The girl who hears a gunshot and pulls out a gun of her own.
The girl who doesn’t just freeze, but fights back.
I reach out to run a single fingertip down Dmitri’s bicep, following the inked path of a tattoo. It swirls and spirals. He’s so warm and solid to the touch, barely moving except to breathe. My own breath is still caught stubbornly in my throat.
Finally, I drop my hand and step back. “You should go see how Bee’s doing.”
His forehead creases. “Bee’s fine.”
“She’s your fiancée. You should be with her right now, not me.”
His lips flatten into a thin line. He nods without argument, grabs his bloody shirt, and leaves. I stand there, caught helplessly in the middle of their life, and try not to panic.
“One.”
Deep breath.
“Two.”
Deep breath.
“Three.”
It doesn’t help this time, though.
43
WREN
The world outside my rooms feels dangerous now.
It’s not just the guns and the bullet wounds and the towels drying with crusted blood that I’m talking about, either.
Even more threatening is the minefield that is Dmitri, Bee, and myself.
I’ve managed to lock myself in a one-way love triangle and I need to get the hell out of it before the baby is born. Preferably before their wedding day.
It’s weird how Bee just got on with life the day after the shooting. I’d walked into the living room the next morning to find her sitting on the floor with piles of wedding magazines splayed out around her. She told me to join her and started rattling off nonchalantly about fabric swatches and floral arrangements.
